


ACT V.3

by thenumberthirteen



Category: King Lear - Shakespeare
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-19
Updated: 2018-01-19
Packaged: 2019-03-06 20:32:41
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,059
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13419090
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thenumberthirteen/pseuds/thenumberthirteen
Summary: “Howl, howl, howl!” It was such a satisfying sound. O: the omega, the end. Bold and powerful. O, o, o. Circular, rhythmical, eternal. A letter shaped like the round, empty pupils of his daughter’s eyes.





	ACT V.3

She spoke to him. He could not tell of what. Her lips moved into sounds but their meanings were lost to time, lost to him. All he could do was smile. His little girl was back with him, back in his arms, and as they sat upon the cold, damp floor of stone and gravel he thought of fields of clover and lilac. There was a time when, once, the pattering of three pairs of tiny feet on wooden floors would send a shock through his system as he blinked awake, threw open the covers, and allowed his children to crawl into the king’s bed. There was, then, a second grown body in the equation, and she would laugh when most would hurl discipline at their progeny; she would laugh and scoop up their youngest and whisper tales in waiting for lightning to strike. He would only know later, but the seed of something dark had begun to sprout in their eldest, but for small mercies the queen would never know of such deception. In her life she only thought the best of those she called her own. There were lilacs at her burial, and that was the last he ever saw of coloured flowers.  


If he responded to her, he didn’t know of what, but she seemed placated, once more glancing towards the light. There was one small opening, in the corner of their cell and up towards the ceiling, too small for a body to fit through, but enough to bring the chill of the night into their new home. The fresh air did them well, and looking up at the moon he wondered if they were not, rather, taking a midnight stroll through the heath. Their path led through birch and oak, sandy grit under their feet and a rolling crash of tide on rock somewhere beyond their sight. The grass brushed her bare feet as she ran, laughing, the bustles of her dress sashaying in the wind, and as the trees dissolved they came to an open path on the cliffside. If he leaned forwards, he would have spotted the jagged edges of stone far below their feet, would have smelt the salt and felt the damp residue of mist upon his face. But he only had eyes for her, the contrary child to which he had always been so attached. She was, on the hillside, four years old again, jumping in her skirts as her mother trailed behind.  


The moon shone bright above, both in their cell and in his living memory.  


“Father,” she spoke. These syllables were clear, now. It was not Lear, nor sir, nor Majesty. It was only Father.  


Cordelia had been his mother’s sister, as it was tradition to name the royal children after members of the king’s family. Cordelia. Cora. Corr–ahh. There was a regal sound to it, like sheets of violet silk softly placed upon a velvet canapé. The queen would have known more of the meaning (Creiryddlydd, daughter of the seas) but to him, the name meant only his heart. Regan, that, given almost haphazardly; he had not even been there at her birth. Regan was a name to be forgotten, suited to a middle child who would soon be married away and rarely thought of again (Ragn: judgment, decision). She could not, alone, exist as an entity. Her whole life he had known her as a functional pair. Cornwall-and-Regan. Goneril-and-Regan. When they were younger, Cordelia-and-Regan. Goneril, on the other hand (Gornylle, no known meaning) – the power of that name was stifling, and some days he nearly buckled with it. She grew up with the weight of that name pressed upon her back like chains that bound her to the ashes of their forefathers. (Goneril had been his mother: the queen before them, ruling with an iron fist in his sick father’s stead. She never desired to meet her grandchildren, least of all the one who bore her name.) The first born child would feel the burden of royalty as keenly as her parents. Then, with the sole father – mercy. Then they all felt that burden like flies under the gaze of an unpitying god.  


“Father.”  


There was a hand upon his arm, and he blinked.  


By the time he could turn to look, she was already dead.

• • •

She remembered very little of her mother.  


At the back of her mind were golden locks that danced with the wind, a wet kiss on young cheeks, bustles of silk that slipped through her fingers like butterflies. She did not know whether these were details imagined or recalled in truth. Leading up the staircase in the palace was an immense portrait of the royal family, oil on canvas, the rendering spanning nearly the entire wall. There were no memories of its creation: the endless hours she knew she must have been subject to, the endless torments of her eldest sister, the yaps of the dogs perched at their feet. Their mother stood off to the side, a hand resting on the king’s shoulder. The same sun-kissed curls from her dreams danced, immortalized in acrylic, an opening of the heavens in the otherwise somber illustration. Amidst the relative severity of the piece – her father and older sisters’ solemn expressions and dark features – the queen and the youngest born stuck out as sole beams of light.  


Her mother’s light, though, came solely from the golden of her hair. Her face was empty, no smile, no nose, no bright eyes; painted over in the unsettling colour of flesh. The woman had died before the completion of the piece, and there was not a heart in the palace who would bear to see its end. (For much of her life, she had looked up to see a blank visage, and wondered how the mother she wished to have could really have been so wonderful: what species of angel does not have a face?)

• • •

“Howl, howl, howl!”  


It was such a satisfying sound. O: the omega, the end. Bold and powerful. O, o, o. Circular, rhythmical, eternal. A letter shaped like the round, empty pupils of his daughter’s eyes.  


It had all happened rather quickly, in his mind, though in retrospect it had likely taken them a number of minutes to bludgeon her into unconsciousness while he was held against one of the cell walls. It is difficult to kill a human body, as the natural instinct for self-preservation prevails until the dying breath. She gasped and struggled uselessly, shrieking for a god who could not come. Her screams were soft plucks of a harp on a chilly winter night; her blood, pooling on the ground, was a lunar eclipse that ushered in a pale, red moon and a summer breeze. The deafening ringing in his ears were drums of war, marking one empire’s surrender and another’s victory.  


Boom-boom. Boom-boom.  


When he came to, the prison was silent, and there was a warm stickiness on his temple that fizzled as he began to stir. The last time he could remember an injury of the kind, he was thirty again and back again in combat against the revolting kingdoms to the south. Ten thousand men on horseback, the glint of silvered armour and banners of blue and black, spears and swords that dimmed in the absence of light. There was no moon, this night, no vision as they charged forwards; no screams, no shouts of war, just the thump-thump-thump of galloping horses and the swish of flags caught in the heavy wind.  


The wetness had disappeared, but there was still warmth, surrounding him, pressing down upon him. It was then, only, that he realized he was holding something soft and heavy within his arms, and he tilted his head to look.  


She had come to him in silence, a joy in the birthing chambers, barely a squeak as she began to take her first breaths. He would always remember those intelligent little eyes that focused on their king and queen with awe, and almost respect already in that newborn gaze. (The first had been cross-eyed for weeks, an unsettling omen, and for much of that time he had not seen her. The second he had not seen at all.) In a whisper she had come to him, and in deafness she would leave.  


He held her to his chest, the warmth of blood pressed once more to his skin, and carried her like a bride in his arms. Her head tilted back towards the earth, legs and arms splayed out, an arch to her back that would have been delicate if not for the bits of blood and flesh that covered her pale chest. His grip tightened on her white chemise, stained with the tears of her body, and began to walk.  


Her face was black and blue. He could not look away: it was empty, just like her mother’s.  


Child and king moved through the cell, the door wide on its hinges, and stepped into the outside world. He couldn’t tell where he wandered, or for how long. Did it matter?  


“Howl, howl, howl!”  


There were words, spoken, though he did not remember them. Faces, he had once known, seemed only like demons intent on stealing his treasure away. Holding her to his chest, even as they crashed to the ground, she seemed to him like a small porcelain doll, the kind the queen would have commissioned for the girls. There was one Cordelia had once loved, with soft rosy cheeks and a red apron over white cloth. Years later, and the master now embodied her silent friend. Cold, hard, with an emptiness within those eyes that could never be filled.  


There was a breath, a gasp of wind, and he screeched for a feather, his mind clawing at an impossibility. The redness was just a pattern on her dress; she wore a mask of silver that concealed her unmarred expression; she was only sleeping in his arms. Papa, she had called him when the queen was still alive; Papa, she had whispered into the dark as he chose war over his flesh and blood. What he wouldn’t give now to hear those words on her blue lips, to hear her scream, yell, torment him, though he knew it would never be in her nature. Be repulsed, filled with hatred of him, but let her live. Let her live.  


Conversation around him – he wanted to turn violent, transformed into a dangerous, rabid animal, foaming at the mouth. He was their king, how dare they? How dare they speak, how dare they utter a sound, as he held their princess in his weak arms and prayed to the elements she could return? How could anyone in the kingdom even whisper while such an injustice was taking place? Had already taken place?  


On the heath, a mist rolled in to greet them, cold, wet, nothing like the refreshing salt that had been there moments before. Grabbing her arm, they retreated violently, the fog chasing them back into the forest. Gone was the cliffside, gone was the sound of roaring waves. The child under his grasp let out a cry: somewhere she had dropped her doll, and though they ran, when he glanced back he caught a flash of red. There were other dolls, there were other nights. They could come back to the moor on a clearer day.  


A feather, where was it? Another soft breath escaped her, and his ear pressed to her chest, searching for a pulsing heartbeat, searching for a rise and fall of tender lungs. She was alive – of course she was, how could he have ever doubted it? Cordelia, his queen of the seas, a forever constant in his mind, at his side, in his heart. Her hand wrapped over his; he looked up and her eyes were wide, her pupils focused on some far away point of the sky. A soft smile danced on her face that had not been there before. Her father wailed a cry of gratitude to the heavens, their hands reaching for one another – he reached, but there was nothing. Of course, she was sleeping, she was tired, undeniably she was exhausted after what he had put her through. A feather! He would only let her rest. Only a short rest and then she would –

**Author's Note:**

> This is something I'd like to perhaps eventually publish somewhere more ~literary~. Any and all critique is extremely appreciated.


End file.
